


One Day In The Life of James T. Kirk

by tprillahfiction



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Attempted Rape, K/S Advent 2011, M/M, prison fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-28
Updated: 2011-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-28 08:52:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/306114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tprillahfiction/pseuds/tprillahfiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A slice of life fic.  Jim Kirk is in prison. Today it's Christmas, normally not such a great day for him anymore but that's until he gets a new cellmate.  Written for the prompt for ksadvent  'Christmas in Prison'.Acknowlegement to the book:  "One Day In The Life of Ivan Denisovich"<br/>Warning: Dark, BLEAK. mention of abuses.  Not a typical Christmas story.  Attempted rape.  Mention of possible character death (not Kirk or Spock).<br/>Written for ksadvent 2011</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Day In The Life of James T. Kirk

Reveille sounds, a shrill alarm, not unlike an old fashioned air raid siren. The noise is unnerving to those new arrivals, but to him it's just another morning wake up call. He opens his eyes only now, though he’s been awake for an hour or so at least—the cold's already roused him with its icy fingers. He greets the hunger pang demon already taking its place in the pit of his belly at five am. But hunger’s an ongoing problem in this place. One of many. The bitter cold only some of the year.

Rising from his cot, he reluctantly slides from under the thin blanket and his coat that he uses as a secondary covering. He pulls the blanket about his shoulders, shuffles over to the grey toilet built into the wall. The water is putrid, slimy. The toilet barely flushes and the smell of excrement is revolting in summer, though not now. He pees, the steam rising from the water. He shoves his freezing dick back into his pants, shuffles back over to his bunk. He tries not to look at the cold empty cot above his.

That was yesterday, a whole lifetime ago. Bones, his friend. Bones was taken away. He’d like to think it’s because Bones walked free from this awful place. He’ll never know. Bones the former surgeon was also the camp drug dealer. Somehow Doc Bones had everything to sell. Anything you wanted he could get it for you. It cost a pretty penny but everyone bought from Bones. Other inmates. Guards. Bones was a cynic with a heart of gold, didn’t censor his mouth for anybody, which had gotten him into plenty of trouble many times. He prefers to believe that maybe one of Bones' contacts freed the man. Doesn't want to think that Bones might have been dragged to the guard tower and beaten to death—like so many others before him-- his supplies taken. Stolen. Bones. His friend.

He missed Bones last night because on really cold nights, they’d snuggle. Bones would drop down to his bunk and hold him tight till morning. Nothing sexual at all in that. Just two men trying to survive. Bones wasn’t ever into men, even after years in prison.

No sense in thinking about it anymore.

He dons his coat, dives into his poor excuse for winter boots, stuffing the rags into the gap, finishing right before the second alarm. 5:30am. No inmate had chronometers or clocks or comms or any timekeeping devices. Those items were all confiscated upon their arrival. The alarms told the inmates the time. It was whatever hour the guards wanted it to be.

He exits his cell, shuffling down the hall with the others, head down. Eyes at their feet. Anyone looking up would be pulled aside and beaten. They press on until they hit the mess hall.

Breakfast is a meager ration of thin soup with bits of fish floating, heads and eyes and all, a few potatoes tossed in the mix and a small slice of bread and a mug of black coffee. It never altered. They were supposed to survive on this twice a day.

As he eats, slowly, making each bite matter, methodically raising the spoon to his lips, he can hear some unusual chatter. Usually there is only silence among the throng assembled, just the sounds of eating. They’re allowed to talk at meals but being famished does that to you, you concentrate on getting the food down while it’s still hot.

“Christmas,” he overhears one hapless soul say. “Today on Earth, it’s Christmas.”

‘So today is Christmas, so what?’ he thinks bitterly. Once upon a time, Christmas was a day with much meaning to him, back home. He enjoyed the entire month of December greatly, loved engaging in celebrations, exchanging gifts, trimming the huge Douglas Fir tree, going caroling, drinking egg nog, attending church on Christmas Eve with Mom and Sam. That was a whole lifetime ago. On Ameis V, in this camp, Christmas simply does not exist. It is another work day, unless the guards say it is not.

The bell rings and that means it’s time to shuffle back to the cells, put their hats and mittens on, go to the mines below and work. Ameis V is a prosperous mining colony—the mining however, is performed entirely by inmates of this prison camp.

He re-enters his cell and finds a tall, thin, dark haired figure standing there, looking somewhat lost and deflated. There’s a nasty bruise on the cheek, a bizarre colored greenish-blue tinge to it. The inmate clutches a newly issued prison hat in his slender hands, wears a newly issued prison coat. He could snatch that away from the new arrival, force the inmate to wear his old worn out hat and coat but he won’t. Won’t inflict the pain and suffering other prisoners and the guards have dealt him in this awful place. Instead he gently takes the article from the fingers—pries it out of the fingers. He notices the pointed ears as he pulls the hat down over the inmate’s head.

They’re not allowed to use the names they were born with. He’s supposed to introduce himself by his number, he doesn't because it's simply one more way the guards dehumanize the prisoners. The new inmate is obviously terrified, yet somehow stubborn and stoic. He risks a severe beating by any overhearing guards and whispers in a comforting tone next to the hat covered ear: “I'm Jim.”

The huge brown eyes widen even further at that, but the green tinged, bruised face nods.

“Where are your mittens?” Jim asks. “We’re going to work soon. You need your mittens.”

The dark eyes shift over to the right, thinking. The inmate looks back at Jim and shakes his head.

“Bastards didn’t give you any mittens?” Jim hisses. “Your hands…you’re not used to this cold.”

The alarm sounds again. Jim hesitates for only a split second, pulls off his own mittens and places them on the new inmate's hands. They shuffle out of the cells, falling into step with the others, heads down. They board the lifts which take them down to the mines.

Mining crystal A’ete with the antiquated equipment takes a certain knack that new arrivals don’t yet possess. They pick it up by the second day, but that doesn’t stop the guards from viciously raining their sticks upon their heads and backs. The new inmate suffers the same fate. Jim moves quicker, next to him, mining and whispering instruction to him, willing the inmate to go faster and he does. “You’re doing okay,” Jim soothes. Jim’s sweating, barely feeling the cold in his mitten-less hands he’s so intent on assisting the new guy.

Finally the alarm sounds, signaling that it’s the end of the work day. Ten hours of grueling labor is over.

They trudge back to their cells. Suddenly theres a huge hand on Jim’s shoulder, the size of an Earth bear paw. The hand flips him around and shoves him against the cinderblock wall. Jim feels the inmate’s erection poking into the cleft of his ass through his thin trousers. Other inmates shuffle past, pretending not to notice, heads down. Guards never will intervene, they just watch and laugh. It’s happened many times before. Jim always fights but the other inmate is much stronger than he is or Bones ever was. Sometimes it’s in the shower but it can happen anywhere.

The inmate pants grossly into his ear: “Know what I want from you, XA-583?”

Idiot. “My dinner ration?” Jim deadpans.

That earns him a punch in the mouth. “Pull ‘em down.”

Suddenly, the other inmate gasps. The massive hulk is flipped around and slammed against the wall. Jim blinks and sees the pointed eared, very slight looking new arrival standing there. Jim briefly wonders how the new inmate managed to flip a gargantuan man like that before he takes off down the corridor, the new guy along side of him, heads down. They don’t speak till they reach the cell.

“Thanks,” Jim whispers, dabbing at the blood trickling down his own chin.

The other inmate nods. They quickly remove hats and gloves and shove them under their pillows. Another alarm sounds and they’re trudging back along the hallway, to the evening meal. The other sits across from him and spoons the soup too quickly into his mouth. “Slow down,” Jim warns. The other does so obediently. Jim watches for a moment then slides his bread over. The inmate shakes his head fervently. “Take it,” Jim insists. “How long’s it been since you’ve eaten?”

The other finally answers in a hoarse voice: “Four standard days.”

Jim concentrates on finishing his soup before it grows cold.

They get exactly one half hour in the exercise yard, long enough in the freezing air, even with hats and mittens and coats and boots. Jim insists that the other take his mittens yet again. Jim’s got rags around his hands, and keeps them tucked under his underarms. No pockets are allowed on any of the clothing. The yard, blanketed by dark sky, illuminated by spot lights and overseen by guards with phaser rifles, is another treacherous area for Jim personally but usually only in the summer months. No one is foolish enough to want to attack in this temperature. Still, the new guy hovers over Jim in what appears to be a protective fashion. Jim appreciates that, asks the new guy more about himself. The new guy is very hesitant but answers the few questions: His family’s ship was captured in the Alastran sector. The Alastran sector is an allegedly ‘illegal’ sector of space for outworlders to be in, the area patrolled by this planet’s police ships. Mother was killed. Does not know what happened to his father. Half Vulcan, Half Human.

The bell sounds--those double rings. Jim's heart sinks. Showers. Every monday after exercise. In the warmer months, the main threat is falling prey to predators. In the winter it’s also obviously freezing. The water is warm but not warm enough. There’s no chance of ‘get in get out’. They’re locked in there for fifteen minutes, completely nude and vulnerable.

The inmates are herded down the wooden floored passageway to the shower room. Jim strips then hangs up his clothes on the nail, indicates for the Vulcan to do the same, quickly before a blow is dealt him by the observing guards. As the other disrobes, Jim notes the cuts and bruises covering the Vulcan’s entire nude body. Jim can’t help lowering his gaze, becoming entranced by one area in particular. Embarrassed, he looks up directly into the pair of obsidian eyes. “Remember where our clothes are.”

Jim guides his companion over to the corner, the safest location for the both of them, out of sight and out of mind for any others. Slightly out of the way off the main showering area. Tepid water is already falling down from the metallic shower heads. Jim reaches for the soap/shampoo container resting on a ledge along the tile lined wall. He quickly washes his hair, gets himself scrubbed, quickly rinsing off. The Vulcan stands there, studying his feet, arms folded, shivering.

Jim pushes the other under the water, suds up his hands, washes the black hair. It’s dirty, but Jim’s able to get it reasonably clean. He goes ahead and washes the half-Vulcan’s back and chest, backside, legs and feet. Moves further by giving the other a head massage under the spray, thinking the other might enjoy that. He feels himself harden. Been a long time since Jim's caressed another naked body like this. So good. He know's the other can feel his hard length, pressing against an ass cheek. He's waiting to be pushed away, but it never happens.

Jim moves even further, gently placing a kiss on the pointed ear, kissing down the face. He's careful to avoid the bruise under the eye. He turns the face towards him with a finger and the body follows. Their lips meet. It feels electric, warm, skin on skin contact. Just like this. Barely knows this inmate, but somehow it's right. He hopes it's as good for the other.

The kissing is all very chaste at first then Jim opens his mouth and the half-Vulcan opens his. Warmth floods Jim’s body as he slides his tongue into the other’s mouth, the bitter cold forgotten. Hands are caressing the chest, carefully, mindful of the injuries.

Jim reaches for more soap, spins the the other around to face away from him again, slides a finger down the cleft of the firm ass cheeks, works a finger inside the warm hole, opening him up as gently but as quickly as he can. “Okay?” Jim breathes against the pointed ear, there’s a nod. Jim slicks up his cock, pushes in. Gasps at the tight warmth around him. Doesn’t stop until he’s all the way in. Moans when he hits bottom. There's a push back and Jim begins fucking into him. Keeps a steady pace. Jim holds onto the slender hips, fucking harder, faster. He grasps the other’s hard cock, strokes it in time. The inmate's head tilts back as he gasps and comes, the muscles tightly gripping Jim, sending Jim reeling into his own orgasm, spilling deep inside.

Jim pulls out, panting. Checks to see if the other is alright. There's another pair fucking hurridly in the opposite corner.

The bell rings and they are out of the shower, toweling off with the thin terrycloth, darting back into their clothing.

They’re shuffling with the rest of the inmates, back into the cells, when a guard calls out: “XA-583!”

Jim’s heart is in his throat. Oh no. What could they possibly want with him? His companion gives him a look, unbridled fear in the eyes. Jim nods and smiles.

He’s lead off into the guard shack. He stands, shivers, waits, for what feels like an eternity.

“Parcel for you.” The guard thrusts a paper wrapped package at him. Jim stares at it. Mom and Sam? They didn’t have the available credits to send anything this far away.

He’s marched back to his cell and finds the half-Vulcan sitting cross legged on the upper bunk.

Jim sits down on his own bunk. Opens up the package. Inside, there’s a bottle of whiskey, a selection of sweets and cookies, salami, bread, butter. And…Jim holds it up. A Christmas ornament. Glass. Blue. He marvels at the beauty of the object. Been too long since he’s seen one of these.

There’s a letter in the package. He opens it:

 _“Dear Kid,  
I’m gonna get you out soon. I promise. Just hold tight. Share some of this stuff with your new cell mate would ya?  
Merry Christmas, Love Bones.”_

Night bell. Lights out. Jim beckons his shivering cellmate to come join him in his bunk, get warm.

“Spock,” the inmate whispers into Jim’s ear, Jim’s arms tightly wrapped around him. “My name is Spock.”

“Merry Christmas, Spock,” Jim breathes.

_____________

END


End file.
